


Flame-Buoyant

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, Anal Sex, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gay Male Character, Harry Watson - Freeform, James Moriarty - Freeform, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBT, M/M, Martha Hudson - Freeform, Moriarty - Freeform, Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Non-Canon Relationship, Sex, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a flamboyant (flame-buoyant, as he puts it) homosexual. He hosts a contest; the winner gets a date with him.</p><p>John Watson is a heterosexual that has never even considered dating a man. (But he's not a homophobe, he promises.)</p><p>A few weeks ago, John's sister, Harry, entered him in Sherlock's contest as a gag gift. Neither actually expected to win, just like most people who enter contests. But of course, John receives an email from the flame-buoyant boycrazy queen himself. He won the date.</p><p>What he hopes to get over with and just be in a platonic relationship with Sherlock Holmes just might turn the world he knew upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flame-Buoyant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock didn't say goodbye. He kissed John lightly, handed him a paper with his number, and left. He didn't say goodbye because he knew it wouldn't be their last time seeing each other.

John’s personal email usually didn't get much. Maybe an ad or two, the annoying reminder from Harry, or something that looked like a virus. He really didn't sign up for anything and didn't expect the one email from a blog he read. Only as humour, though. It was an enjoyable site that detailed the flamboyant life of its writer, or “flame-buoyant” as the blogger himself called it. John regarded himself as a generally serious man, a completely heterosexual intellectual doctor that wasn't up for childish innuendos (“dick jokes”, as the owner of the blog called them) but took to reading The Science of Seduction, written by a gay Sherlock Holmes, as a guilty pleasure.

A few weeks ago, as a gag gift, his sister Harry entered him in a contest whose prize was a date with Mr. Holmes himself. The impromptu email he received, apparently just three hours ago, was probably going to be a congratulatory letter. Not even a man as silly as Sherlock would write a million emails to everyone who entered his contest detailing how they lost or won.

He swallowed hard. _Maybe it isn't legitimate_ , John thought neurotically, _Maybe it’s just another stupid virus email I get_. He didn't want to go out on a date with a man. He liked women. He _loved_ women. It wasn't like John was a homophobe, but he considered himself to be interested in exclusively, specifically, explicitly, and _only_ members of the female sex. Being with a man would annihilate the colossal wall he had built around his desires to hide his true sexuality.

 _The site_ , he thought suddenly, _Sherlock’s blog. If it’s a real email, then something about it will be on the site._ He kept silently praying that he didn't win.

John hastily typed the URL into his browser, _[www.thescienceofseduction.co.uk](http://www.thescienceofseduction.co.uk), _ impatiently drumming his short fingers on the keys of his laptop while waiting for the blog to load. Slowly, the elements of the webpage showed up and filled the blankness of John’s screen with a perfect juxtaposition of neon colours against an inky black. Sherlock really did act like a stereotypical homosexual.

There was a new blog post, published three hours ago. “The Winner of My Contest is…” the title of the post was. John nodded, confirming his fear and flipped back to his inbox and stared hard at the untouched email. He slowly moved the cursor over it and clicked gingerly, apprehensively.

 

TO: [watsonj@mail.co.uk](mailto:watsonj@mail.co.uk)

FROM: [sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk](mailto:sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk)

DATE: 5 November 2014 13:33

SUBJECT: Re: Sherlock Holmes’s Dating Contest

 

Hello!

I presume it’s John Watson I’m emailing. I’m not here to spam you or email you about any of that shit that you probably think I’d do. This is regarding my dating contest that you entered, and out of the thousands that entered, you've won! Congratulations! Please email me back so we can work it out.

-Sherlock Holmes

 

John returned to The Science of Seduction. He finally clicked on the most recent blog post, wide eyed. It also mentioned his name. It could have been another John Watson; it is quite a common name, but that email was sent to his address. The one that was used when Harry entered him. It had to be him. Dr. John Watson. Former army doctor. Current loner.

He didn’t know how to reply to that email, though. Everything he typed, then backspaced, didn't seem fit. Eventually he gave up and switched to Sherlock’s blog. He needed a distraction from the pressure of replying.

John wasn't sure how he was going to tell Sherlock that it was just a joke by his sister and that he wasn't gay. But that would certainly be disappointing to him, maybe even saddening. And probably embarrassing.

His cursor gravitated to the navigational tab, “Pictures” and rested on its bright turquoise rectangle. He clicked, loading two neat columns of photographs. Well, they were photos of Sherlock. Selfies. Some professionally taken, looked like they belonged in a male modelling magazine. And some were pictures taken with others in it. Probably family and friends.

John forced himself to come to the confession that he did find Sherlock attractive. Curly, dark brown hair. Pale, blue-green-grey eyes. Stark white skin as smooth as silk. Tall and slim. Gorgeous cheekbones. He was _so_ beautiful.

The first picture in the second column was one that looked like it was taken by a professional. Sherlock was suggestively leaning against a wall, sexily staring at the camera. He was dressed with a figure-hugging aubergine coloured button down and black formal trousers. Though he was a flamboyant, ridiculous person, he knew how to look hot.

There were a few more professionally taken shots, some with other people, and a lot of selfies. One in the middle of the long list of photographs seemed to be sequestered from the rest in John’s eyes. It was one where Sherlock was shirtless. John’s cheeks burned crimson. It felt like he had crossed the lines of taboo. Like he was looking at gay porn or something. Except, this particularly sexual selfie _was_ (or at least could arguably be considered) homoeroticism. John could imagine a gay man masturbating to these photos. Homosexual pornography.

The selfie he was ogling awkwardly at featured Sherlock taking a picture of himself from an above angle. He laid across a one-person chair, long legs sprawled over the armrest. He was naked except for a pair of black pants. The boxer shorts stood out from his milky, pale complexion. He even seemed to glow with the lighting. His face was obviously intended to look seductive, and it was definitely sexy. Sherlock’s bottom lip was protruded in a pout, moistened and looking glossy. Kissable. His eyes were widened (not overdramatically) and their colour was exceptional. His hand was cupped over his crotch, long, elegant fingers looking like they were about to grope what was underneath.

John swallowed again. He was going on a date with this man, one of the most attractive people he had ever met. (Or not met) _Actually, I’m not going. This is a male_ , he reminded himself.

He reached for his mobile in his pocket and speed dialled Harry. After three tedious rings, there was a female voice on the end of the line. “Hey, uh, Harry? It’s John here and I hate to be so straightforward but…” he began unsurely.

Harry interrupted him with a series of “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”s. “John? What is it? You sound…Timid and nervous.”

John let a silence follow shortly. He was probably overreacting. “Well, do you remember that contest you signed me up for, as a gag? The one on Sherlock Holmes’s blog?” he scratched the back of his head and sighed, releasing some of his emotion from his visage and posture. He felt slightly less rigid and alarmed.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

She probably knew what John’s next words were going to be, but patiently remained quiet anyways, just out of respect for her sibling. “I was chosen. To go on a date with him.”

He could practically hear his overexcited sister’s beam over the phone. “Really?” she gasped. “That’s awesome! I didn’t know that you were gonna actually go for it, you know, if you did win! But here you are, John Hamish Watson, going on a date with a man!” she chattered uproariously. There was a brief pause, but John could still hear her breathing through the speaker. She suddenly returned to her eager talking. “Have you even seen him?! He’s stunning!” Harry had such melodramatic expressions and emotions. John rolled his eyes. “I’m so jealous of you!” she giggled jeeringly. “If I were a man, I’d totally go for him!”

John grunted audibly. “Calm down, Harry! The reason why I called you is so I could ask how to worm my way out of this date. He’s attractive, certainly, but I am not gay! I don’t have any intentions of dating another man,” he hissed loudly, knitting his eyebrows together. It was as if he were scared someone could hear their conversation.

Harry’s emotions were so vivid that they could easily be felt, even just by hearing them. The sudden drop of exuberance from her voice was obvious. “Oh. But why not? You don’t have to go on a date _romantically_. Just hang out with him, flirt platonically, and then explain that you aren’t into guys and that your sister set you up for this. Apologise, hope he takes it well. Maybe you guys could just be friends or something?” she suggested. “I don’t know why you’re so protective of your interest in girls.”

John thought of this as if a light bulb popped over his head. He smiled. “That’s smart! But I don’t want to let him down too hard, you know? He kinda seems like the type that’s sensitive….”

“Just be really gentle about it, okay?” she said, calmly. There was an awkward break in her speech. “Wait, so you’re gonna go? You’re _really_ gonna go?!” Harry was squealing in her original bubbliness.

He hesitated for just a millisecond. “Yeah….” He finally said, so quietly and laden with apprehension it was almost a whisper of nothingness.

Before his frankly exasperating sibling could utter another squeal, he tapped the end button and pocketed his mobile again. John stared blankly at the picture on the screen. His brain told him to switch back to his email, but his hand refused. Perhaps laziness, or maybe something else. He shook that thought out of his head before he could analyse it any further.

Eventually he willed his self to take the short move and look at his inbox, where the email from Sherlock remained open. He rested his hands on the home row of the keyboard. He exhaled a breath of air, slowly deflating his puffed cheeks. S…H…E…R…L…O…C…K… He started typing his email slowly and reluctantly. As if typing a wee letter was terrifying. It took a while for John to figure out how he was going to word it, but when he was done, it looked like this:

 

TO: [sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk](mailto:sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk)

FROM: [watsonj@mail.co.uk](mailto:watsonj@mail.co.uk)

DATE: 5 November 2014 16:49

SUBJECT: Re: Sherlock Holmes’s Dating Contest

 

Sherlock-

It’s so wonderful that I have won. Do you think you could specify what you meant when you said to “work it out”?

Thank you,

John Watson

 

He sent it and was about to move on to his work, but a familiar ding came from his laptop’s speakers. It was the ding that signalled a new email. _Had he really replied that fast? Did he expect the email I just sent and had prepared a reply?_ John wondered in puzzlement.

 

TO: [watsonj@mail.co.uk](mailto:watsonj@mail.co.uk)

FROM: [sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk](mailto:sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk)

DATE: 5 November 2014 16:50

SUBJECT: Re: Sherlock Holmes’s Dating Contest

 

John,

Well, I suppose I want to know when you’re available, for a start. Another important thing, should I pick you up, or should we meet? It’s up to you, really. And… Are you in this just for sex? Because I don’t like to shag until I get to know the guy. Apologies about that, but it has happened in the past and I don’t wish to encounter such men again.

-Sherlock Holmes

 

John froze when he read the last question. His face flushed and he pursed his lips as if he ate a lemon. Sherlock was obviously straightforward and checked his email frequently. John typed out a reply, trying to be as gracious as possible.

 

TO: [sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk](mailto:sherlockholmes@mail.co.uk)

FROM: [watsonj@mail.co.uk](mailto:watsonj@mail.co.uk)

DATE: 5 November 2014 16:52

SUBJECT: Re: Sherlock Holmes’s Dating Contest

 

Sherlock-

I think my only available day that’s coming up is tomorrow. I apologise if that’s too short of a notice, but my job has a busy schedule. Perhaps we could meet at the place of your choice? I can be there at 7:00. And no, it’s not just for the shagging, of course not.

Thank you,

John Watson

 

That last sentence was incredibly awkward to type. John had to close his eyes to avoid being mortified just by typing it.

The next email was a simple confirmation with a smiley face and the name of a restaurant, “Ricardo’s Home Restaurant” it was apparently called. John had the impression that it may be Italian. It seemed like a nice choice. Romantic, but not too pricey or fancy. He didn’t want something overly rococo when he was just meeting the guy. Plus, that would imply romance. He was doing this in a merely platonic way. _Platonic_ , he reassured himself.

Uncertainty still settled in his gut.

 

~

 

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock wanted to know what John Watson looked like. How old he was. What kind of job he had. Tonight, he wasn't just offering a date to satiate his swarming of followers. He genuinely wanted a boyfriend. Someone to give love to and receive from, to cuddle with on the couch, do all kinds of cliche things a couple could do. His ex was gone, he had been lonely for too long, and hoped that this date with John could send sparks of love flying for him again. Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe this man could replace all the other lovers that had abandoned him, hurt him, and made fun of him. 

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His white button down with that black blazer that his fans said made him look sexy. He decided not to wear his trench coat tonight. That was too casual. He wore it too often. No scarf, either. That would be hideous with his chosen outfit.

It was 5:45 PM, and even though they were going to meet at seven, Sherlock wanted to be punctual. Plus, the restaurant was far away; it could take at least half an hour to get there, if not more. If traffic was really bad (and it was usually bad) then the drive could be one hour at the least. Sherlock began to pray that tonight would be a night with empty roads and he would be able to have a nice date.

He slipped his wallet into his pocket and opened the door, taking a deep breath as he walked out of the door. _John, John, John_ , he mused as he shut the door. A cab rolled by; he signalled it and it pulled over for him. Sherlock told the cabbie his destination absent-mindedly. He wasn’t quite sure if the driver heard, but considering that the vehicle was moving, he could only assume he did.

The drive would have been tedious had it not been for Sherlock’s vehement thoughts and fantasies about John. He didn’t want preconceived ideas of him and be disappointed to find that Real John did not match up with Fantasy John. Then a relationship could never form. But, he couldn't help his active imagination.

Near the end of the drive, he was so immersed in his contemplation the cabbie had to vocalise that they had reached the destination, quite vociferously so that it made Sherlock’s delicate ears resonate with the shouting of his chauffeur. He thought about ungraciously explaining to his driver that he was obnoxious, cantankerous, boisterous, raucous, and any other word that popped into his head at that moment.

Rather, he paid the cab driver, ensuring to grumble as in dissatisfaction for emphasis, and turned as quickly as possible to face the elegant glass doors of the restaurant. It was a place he loved to take first dates. It always turned out well here.

He glanced at his wristwatch. _6:30_ , he noted. _Early by half an hour._ He smile to himself and sighed in relief. It was better to be early, considering he had sort of forgotten to make reservations.

Sherlock let himself in, thanking the lord when he remarked that customers were sparse and the waiting area wasn’t at all bustling. He even allowed himself to confidently stride to the front table where a busty, blond female was. She really didn’t look like the receptionist of a semi-formal Italian restaurant. More like a world famous porn star. If Sherlock had even the _slightest_ , _tiniest_ interest in the opposite sex, he may have been interested. But to him, women were just people. He didn’t even take notice of the ones that were universally attractive.

“Hi,” he said after approaching the blond at the front. “Have you got any openings?”

The blond was obviously accustomed to innuendos and dirty compliments from guys, and she laughed copiously. Her rounded cheeks flushed and she smiled like a movie star. She didn’t act like a pretentious female that used her appeal to manipulate others. She seemed sweet. “What kind of opening are you thinking of, sir?” she riposted flirtatiously.

Sherlock’s bright features fell slightly and his cheeks transitioned pink. He suddenly felt a surge of vexation at the woman’s nerve. He was a proud homosexual, and would _never_ flirt with a female. He tried to tamp his ire and conceal it with a terse behaviour. “Any spots in the restaurant?” he inquired abruptly, not wanting to be so amiable anymore. “I’ve got my _man_ coming soon and I forgot to make reservations.” He paid extra attention to make sure “man” was emphasised thoroughly.

The receptionist woman tried to be reticent about her exiguous contempt and astonishment. Sherlock could see right through her façade; he was unbelievably prodigious at deducing people just from miniscule details. _Homophobes_ , he scoffed under his breath.

Obviously, the lady would have been violating company codes or something by refusing service to him; that would be discrimination. So she beamed with one of the most overdone and blatantly unconvincing grins she could muster. Her figure was rigid and that commodious, capacious (almost uncanny) gallery of teeth must have been absolutely agonising to her jaw and facial muscles.

“Of course,” she replied in a tense voice. The attempt to be relaxed was stringent and her true expression shone through the cracks. “Party of two, under what name?”

“Holmes,” he nodded curtly, “Sherlock Holmes.”

She typed something onto the computer in front of her, staring at the light that emanated off the screen. The blond lady looked back up at Sherlock just a bit too perfunctorily to be persuasive. “All right, Mr. Holmes,” she said with another cheesy smile. “Just follow me to your seat and we’ll be getting you and your accompaniment served soon.”

The receptionist had a gait that was to the point, walking in lengthy strides that appeared almost anguishing to attempt to simulate. Sherlock had unusually extensive legs and therefore had no trouble keeping up to the female in front of him.

He was directed to a booth in a dimly lit corner. It wasn’t particularly copacetic, but the lack of aesthetics and slight misplacements was compensated for by the heavy romantic setting it carried. There was a long, red candle lit, centred on the table. A lamp overhead gave somewhat of an obscured, opaque, muted kind of feel.

Sherlock perched himself in the voluptuous, dense booth seat. It was abundantly opulent and was certainly pleasant to sit on. He could get comfy and wait a while with this kind of atmosphere.

And as it turned out, he did have to wait a while. 45 minutes later, at 7:15, there was still no John. He was starting to get apprehensive. _What if he isn’t coming? What if he’s a hetero and he’s scared to come?_ His worrisome side susurrated dramatically. Then his logical side, _Please, he’s just going to be late. Don’t be stupid._

Was it really that surprising that Sherlock’s more cogent side of his mind was correct? John sauntered in, quite nonchalantly. He most likely did not remark the time and didn’t know he was late.

Sherlock allowed himself a glance at John Watson. He didn’t want to seem creepy when he had just met the man. _Oh my god_ , he thought exuberantly, _John Watson. He’s…So gorgeous._

He noted all the characteristics he could by just looking. Short, golden hair with wisps of silver, dark blue eyes; almost grey, short but had a stocky build. He didn’t dress formally; John wore a knitted jumper and blue jeans. _Cute_.

Sherlock smiled warmly as his date sat down. “John Watson. So nice to meet you,” he extended his hand.

John reciprocated the gesture of welcoming and took the said hand, _Such soft hands,_ “And then you’re obviously Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you,” he said. His eyes moved down to Sherlock’s hands, briefly, before meeting his eyes again with friendliness.

“I really hate to be so sudden, but, what if we just skipped all the small talk? Meaningless, time consuming conversation isn’t exactly how I like to meet someone,” Sherlock offered. He had the best of intentions, but nonetheless sounded abrupt and somewhat rude. However, John wasn’t at all bothered by this.

He nodded. “I’m not much of a fan of small talk myself,” John concurred. “So then, tell me about yourself.”

“Well, what do you want to know?” Sherlock replied.

“What you do for a living?” he inquired.

“Consulting detective.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose I could say, the police come to me when they need a case to be solved,” Sherlock explained vaguely. “And you, John?”

 “Doctor. At Saint Bartholomew’s,” John answered.

“Oh really? I use their lab and morgue frequently. Peculiar that I’ve never seen you around,” Sherlock added.

“Well, I sit in a small room all day; no wonder you don’t see me,” John shrugged.

Sherlock ceased conversation fugaciously. He cocked his head to the side and turned the corners of his mouth up into a quirky little lopsided face of adoration. “John Watson,” he said quietly, like he wanted no one else to hear. “You’re so casual and relaxed.” John had a sudden rush of panic come over him. He knew he should have chosen something more ornate. Sherlock continued, “I love that. People are always dressed to impress nowadays.”

John thought that was a bit hypocritical, considering Sherlock was embellished in rather formal clothing. His date seemed to have read his mind and chuckled softly, his voice a deep baritone rumble. "I dress like this every day. More professional,” he explained.

John nodded. “It does fit you quite well,” he carelessly agreed. He, in horror, realised what he said was awkward and unacceptable, considering they had met only some minutes ago. John wasn’t the type to be salacious and give outright sexual innuendos. He liked to think of himself as classy and respectable. His face tinted pinkish-red. “I mean, you, uh, look really handsome tonight,” he faltered. He thought he was a smooth talking socialite, yet he couldn’t even compliment a guy. And so much for the whole platonic idea. His instinctual, embarrassing attempts at flirting probably looked like he wanted to take the relationship down a different road.

Sherlock smiled lightly at his awkwardness. So far, John was adorable and sweet. Didn’t know how to act. He assumed it was probably his first time with a man. Probably just came to terms with his sexuality? Or has a newfound interest in men? Nonetheless, he was attractive and friendly. “Thank you.” He ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. “So, is this your first date with a guy?”

John blushed quite prominently. “Uh, yeah.” He scratched the nape of his neck, like he didn’t know how to continue.

“Why did you suddenly decide just now? Not saying it’s a spur of a moment thing, but what got you motivated?” he casually queried.

Sherlock moistened his lips and fixed his gaze at John, who was shyly looking at his lap. He met Sherlock’s ethereal face. _He’s really beautiful_ , he thought to himself. John would admit that. He refused to admit the part where he was staring lecherously at Sherlock’s full pale pink lips. And he also forced himself to be reticent (and inconspicuous to himself) about his flushed face and warmth in body every time Sherlock looked at him.

 _And he likes me…_ John mused pleasantly, almost humming jovially. _Is it gay to like a man? Or is it just a passing crush? Who cares? Sherlock is gorgeous._ He had to think of something to say. “Well, I just kind of considered it when my last relationship with a woman failed. I thought about it a couple times, but then I realised I didn’t know anyone that appealed so much to me. I was looking at your blog, saw you were having a contest, and you know, hoped I could win,” he lied timidly. It felt like someone dropped rocks in his stomach. John was loath to lie; he had strict ethical standards.

Sherlock nonchalantly gestured his listening with a nod. He leaned on the table, slightly closer to John’s being. “So, tell me: I want to know all the things you hate about dating. Just so I can avoid it.”

The shorter man pondered the question for several brief moments, recalling moments from dating that repulsed him. “Well, like you said, small talk. I like having real conversations with people. Um, I hate when people act fake.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying it. _Hypocrite_ , his mind taunted him. _You’re such a liar_. “When someone is desperate and clingy,” he continued. “I mean, there are probably more, but I’d hate to bore you with a relentless list.”

“Good. I do none of those things,” he stated concisely. “Ask me something,” Sherlock said with the rhapsodic grin of a young child.

 

~

 

_John_

 

The two men had congenial confabulation, not particularly enthralling, but it was pleasant to learn more about one another. Sherlock could feel an infatuation wanting to be the despot of his sanity. John on the other hand, felt a minute physical attraction toward his date. He was conflicted about his feelings and contemplated if he should be getting into this without knowing what he was even doing in the first place. His sister had set him up with it, after all.

Even though the restaurant was vacant, it took at least 15 minutes for a server to get to them. Both John and Sherlock were dissatisfied.

That night, the food wasn’t as indulgent as it usually was, and obviously the service wasn’t either. Sherlock was surprised, usually it was top notch. He was disappointed, wishing it could have been better for a first date.

When they were ambulating to the front to pay the cheque, Sherlock placed one of his poised hands on the small of John’s back, as if already claiming him as his own. A small shiver ran up John’s spine and a warmth spread over his body. The heart hammering in his chest petulantly beat faster in an attempt to get noticed by John, who was too consumed with thoughts of _oh my god did that really happen_ to remark it.

Sherlock walked with a vehemence, as if he was proud to be with John. It made him feel wanted and he was starting to reanalyse his feelings for Sherlock. So maybe he was like bisexual? Maybe bi-curious? Pansexual? But beside that, he _certainly_ had feelings for him. And John wasn’t as scared to admit it. What could be so bad about liking a man?

 _Is it too soon to want to kiss him, even just chastely?_ John asked himself. _But wait. Who cares, as long as we’re both ready, right?_

Sherlock opened the door and held it for John. He was already taking the dominant position in the relationship. John smiled politely, waiting for the embrace around his waist to return. It did, and it warmed his torso in the icy air.

John looked up at Sherlock. “A lovely, romantic stroll?” he asked with a small grin.

Sherlock returned his gesture. “If you want to put it that way.”

“It was fun, our date,” John said. “So, um, thank you.” The reminder of keeping it platonic no longer bothered him, but it was still in the very back of his mind.

“Anytime. I had fun, too,” Sherlock shrugged. “Although, the experience wasn’t the best. They could’ve had better food and service.”

“I suppose that’s true. I didn’t want to tell you though, didn’t want you to think I was pretentious and had terribly high standards,” John replied.

“I wouldn't judge you based off of one thing you said. Try me now. Tell me what you’re thinking of, and we’ll see,” Sherlock challenged him playfully.

John found this the perfect opportunity to tell him that…Well, he sort of wanted to kiss him. Even on the cheek would be fine, if Sherlock would be uncomfortable kissing him on the lips. But then again, Sherlock wasn’t shy. No, he was a peacock. “I’m thinking of kissing you,” he said joyfully.

So John officially had a crush on him. _Well that happened quickly. Really quickly. Even though he's a guy._  Sherlock simpered, gazing knowingly at him. John dared to even stare quite lecherously at him. “I wouldn’t object to it, even though I’ve only known you for a couple hours. I think I… _like you_ ,” he susurrated softly, his breath visible.

John leaned toward Sherlock with trembling lips. He could feel his breathing on his upper lip and saw Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut gently. _Maybe it would be a good time to close mine?_ He wondered to himself. _Is kissing a guy different than kissing a girl? Maybe not. At least with Sherlock. He has really nice lips._

He only realised what he was doing when he did get to kiss Sherlock. And it was awkward. They bumped, their hands were just lying there, and John didn’t even know it was coming. _Damn_ , he thought, _Fucked it up._

He didn’t even bother getting consent from Sherlock. He went right in and kissed him again. Because he wanted to. John didn’t have to pretend he was a girl, like he thought he would have to. It was celibate, yet still with a small spark of passion and ecstasy. And kissing him felt weird. John never actually thought about the feeling of pressing his lips against someone else’s, just the  _sensation_. Maybe it was different because of the stubble. A light brush of stubble on his skin that hadn’t gotten shaved off. He determined it was incredulous, and was left wanting to do it again and again. Sherlock had absolutely lovely lips.

They pulled away, satisfied. “Not even different,” John said.

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“Kissing females and kissing males. Just a bit of stubble on guys. Rougher, more masculine,” he described.

Sherlock blushed slightly. “Sorry, my shaving was lazy this morning.”

John shook his head. “It’s kind of…Pleasant,” he admitted with embarrassment. It was true. He actually _liked_ a man’s stubble brushing against his face. He _liked_ kissing Sherlock, and have leftover morning fuzz scratch his face. _I’m getting gayer by the second_ , he mused humourlessly.

“Do you think we’re taking it too fast?” John asked suddenly. He bit his lip nervously.

“No,” Sherlock replied indifferently. "You can't go too fast if we're both going the same pace."

_But what if? What if they were going too fast and it would destroy them in the long run?_

Sherlock and John called a taxi after a sweet stroll, both returning to their respective flats. Sherlock didn't say goodbye. He kissed John lightly, handed him a paper with his number, and left. He didn't say goodbye because he knew it wouldn't be their last time seeing each other.

 

~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much if you've read!!! This is my first work here, and I have others that I'm finishing and planning to post. More will come soon!


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